


Jokes on You

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce and Clark are best friends, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildy ooc?, Other, The Joker doesn't want anyone else killing Batman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 16:36:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15223286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Batman finds himself in a bit of trouble, so his arch nemesis decides to patch him up... because no one can kill The Batman besides the Clown Prince of Crime. But things don't go according to plan, especially after Batman's been given painkillers, and Superman gets involved at the end.





	Jokes on You

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is basically in a nebulous universe that doesn't *really* follow cannon. It may have cannon elements, but basically, I write what suits me, so if I have to bend some stuff... well, it gets bent. This is my first posted fic, so be nice. Thanks! Hope you enjoy it. Note: I do not own these characters, DC Comics does.

Batman groaned, stumbling a little as he hurried away from the soon-to-explode building. A consistent stab of pain emanating from his side made it hard to breathe. Bruce’s dizziness caused him to collide with a wall, and he almost fell. But he grit his teeth and kept moving, ignoring how out of focus everything was, the throbbing pain in his side, and the blood loss. A piece of rubble in the path ahead caused him to stumble again and he barely caught himself as he fell forward. A sudden roar made him hurry because as soon as that fire grew large enough, it would hit the explosives Riddler had stashed on the top floor. 

Dizziness swept over him and Batman nearly fell to his knees again as the world shook and twisted. But with abrupt clarity, he realized that his injuries weren’t causing the earth to shake… it was the explosion. Bruce hobbled more quickly, nearly crying out with how the movements sent a bolt of lightening through his ankle. Just as he was about to round the corner, a piece of flying shrapnel from the explosion sailed through the air and hit him square in the back, and he fell forward, hitting the ground with a smack. Batman lay there, sprawled out, and didn’t get up.  
……….  
Something was poking at his face, and it was extremely annoying. Bruce tried to ignore it, hoping that it would go away, but it persisted—every few seconds, poke, poke, poke, right on his cheek. Finally, Bruce had had enough, and grabbed the poking thing. He blinked open his eyes to see that he was holding a hand, finger still pointed to poke at him… an unnaturally pasty, white hand. Bruce quickly released the hand and tried to sit up, but, hissing from the pain, found he could not. He slid back against the… pillows… on the bed he was lying on. Immediately, he twisted his torso to face the clown, the Prince of Crime, his arch nemesis, the Joker. Chuckling maniacally, the Clown said, “You sure took a tumble back there, Bats… I was worried for a hot minute that you weren’t going to wake up. But look at you—still ready to go, even if you can’t sit up!”  


Bruce glared at the Joker, and asked icily, though wheezily, “What do you want, Clown?”  


The green-haired menace’s eyes widened and he suddenly started laughing again, loudly. “HA OH HA HO HAH… Wh— what do... HA HAH… I want? Oh, Batsy, you crack me up.”  


Bruce scowled again, managing to sit half-way up, although it was killing him—his stomach muscles were on fire, although it didn’t feel like he was bleeding anymore. “Be serious, Joker. Tell me what you’re up to!” Bruce said more firmly, adding a little growl into his voice. Joker smiled, his yellow-white teeth gleaming.  


“Why, Batman! I’m almost offended—when have I ever lied to you? I’m the picture of honesty, look it up in the dictionary! But, since you’re injured, and I’m a very generous human being, I won’t hold it against you. You see, Ratman, I found you lying on the ground, looking like you’d gone on a bender or something. So, I, the magnanimous me, said, ‘What the heck?! Let’s bring him to the lair.’ So I did, and here we are, having this nice conversation,” the clown explained joyfully.  


Bruce ground his teeth together as he sat up fully, now also aware of the ache in his leg, and of the throbbing of his ankle. He shuddered for a second from the sheer exhaustion and pain, before clenching a fist and refocusing in on his archnemesis, who, to his displeasure, was looking at him rather observantly, head slightly cocked. Warily, Bruce went to reach for a bat-a-rang to find that his belt was gone.  


“Ah-a-ah,” Joker said, chuckling, “no belt for you! You’ve been a bad bat, Batman.” Bruce sighed quietly, and ignored the other man as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The clown just wheeled his chair back and asked, sounding genuinely curious, “And where are you planning to go?” Bruce hissed again, trying to stand up. He managed to get to his feet, but as he went to walk forward, the pain from the gash in his side and leg made his vision go white and he swayed on his feet. There was suddenly a hand on his back and Bruce tried to shove the clown away, but the movement caused him to blackout for a second. The next thing he knew, he was back on the bed, and the Joker’s muffled voice was calling, “Batsy? Yoo-hoo?” A knock on his helmet made Bruce growl, and then gasp as he tried to sit up again.  


The clown was pacing back and forth in front of him, looking pensive. “I feel like I’m forgetting something,” he muttered. With a snap of his fingers, he suddenly spun so he was facing Bruce and marched forward. A hand quickly swept over his leg wound, and came away red. “Aha!” The Joker said, “That’s it! I forgot to patch you up. Yes, I remember now, I was waiting to see if you woke up; didn’t want to waste valuable medical supplies on a dead man—no offence, Batsy.” He smiled, and patted Bruce’s head. Bruce scowled, focusing on staying conscious, although he was unsure of how much longer he’d last—he had severely underestimated how injured he was. Alfred would be furious. Bruce blinked, realizing his eyes had been shutting. The clown was looking at him, a rare frown on his face. “Tickles, Mr. Whoopsidaisy, bring the medical supplies in here, now!”  


Two absurdly large men dressed in shabby clown costumes ran into the room with a white cart—almost like a room service one—and a large, leather bag with a red cross on it. Joker waved them away and they shuffled out quickly. Bruce had given up on even sitting up, but he turned his head to see what kind of horrors the clown had, fists clenched and ready. To his surprise, under the white sheet was a stack of clean supplies—not that that made him feel any better. The Joker hummed, rustling through the bag. He held up a plastic-bagged syringe, and a bottle of yellowish liquid. He filled the syringe, tapping the bubbles out, and turned back to Bruce, walking slowly towards him. “This will make you feel aaallll better, Batman, no need to worry,” he cooed softly, as if he were talking to a frightened animal.  


Nervously, Bruce scooted a few inches away, arm muscles tensing to fight. He was sweating again under the cowl and he could feel his heart hammering; whatever was in that vial, it was something he did not want to get injected into him. The Joker smiled ‘reassuringly’ at him and suddenly, grabbed one of Bruce’s gloved hands. Batman swung with his other, but the Joker ducked. “Sorry,” he muttered, pressing down on Bruce’s stab wound on his leg, “but this is for your own good!”  


As Bruce was reeling from the pain, the clown somehow managed to remove one of the armored gloves and grasped Bruce’s wrist, bottom-up, in an iron grip. He injected the stuff into Batman and stepped back. Bruce sat up, and spat out, “What did you just put into me?” The Joker just hummed and went about, apparently preparing a sterile needle and thread, and putting on gloves. Bruce tensed, trying to move away, feeling his hear thundering, and sweat dripping down his back. But gradually, a feeling of warmth spread from the pit of his stomach and he felt his pain numbing as his muscles relaxed.  


Batman found that he was having a hard time sitting up, as the room felt too floaty for him to continue trying. He flopped back, so he was fully lying on the bed. He felt like he was spinning in the middle of an ocean, in a small boat. A sharp bark of glee came from somewhere above him, and Bruce remembered that his mortal enemy was in the room. A small, distant part of his mind pressed Bruce to ask again, voice slurred, “What did you give me?”  


The clown took out a knife, murmuring, “Oh, nothing much. It’s what I take when you beat me up!” Bruce barely flinched as the knife came toward him, too intent on the feeling that he was slowly sinking into the mattress—was it possible to build a mattress out of quicksand? He bet the Joker could do it, out of all of his enemies, the man was devious enough. A sudden “aww” sound above him made Bruce blink, and he realized he’d spoken aloud. He blinked again. The clown, a knife between his teeth, started tugging at something on his suit. Bruce flinched at the jostling, and the clown put the knife down somewhere. “Does that hurt?” He asked, prodding Bruce. Bruce groaned a little at the lightening flash of pain, although it dulled as soon as the Joker’s hand was removed.  


“I’ll take that as a yes,” the clown muttered, refilling the syringe.  


Bruce absently watched, pouting. “Don’t… do that,” he huffed. The clown rolled his eyes, and something pinched in Bruce’s arm.  


“My gosh, I had no idea you were such a drama queen, Bats,” the other man said. A wave of sleepiness hit Bruce, who sighed—all his pain was gone, and it almost felt as if his body was numb. He blinked, closing his eyes. A sudden pat on his cheek forced him to open his eyes, grumpily. The clown pointed the knife at Bruce’s face and said sternly, “None of that! I need you awake for this, just in case. I won’t have you being killed off by some clown like the Riddler—only I get to kill you—so, you have to stay awake, hear me?” Bruce grumbled again, but blinked more clearly. He shuffled, trying to sit up more, as that would probably help him stay awake. The Joker seemed to realize what he was trying to do because, abruptly, he was being propped up. He watched hazily as the clown cut away at his suit—just removing parts where he was injured. Then Bruce observed the clown as he appeared to be cleaning Bruce’s wounds, with a strange sense of detachment. He blinked, and could feel his eyes drooping before a sharp tug made him shoot his eyes open.  


The Joker was bent over his torso, tongue sticking out slightly, and a needle was stitching the gash shut with clean, efficient stitches. Suddenly, the Clown fixed his gaze intently on Bruce, and he asked, seriously, “Do you feel that?” Bruce shook his head tiredly. The Clown nodded in satisfaction. Bruce blinked thickly, eyelids like lead. Crouched over his thigh, the Joker said, “You can go to sleep now if you want, Bats.”  
……….  


The first thing Batman noticed was that he was lying on a rough, hard surface. Then he noticed the navy-blue sky above him, and a siren going off in the distance. He lurched to his feet and stumbled against the roof-access door as a dull pain flooded his system, and his vision wavered dangerously. He blinked and his vision cleared, although he couldn’t get rid of the slightly numb, floaty feeling in his body and head. Bruce took a deep breath and tried to remember just what the hell had happened. He searched his mind, and for some reason, had a vision of the Joker of all people stitching him up, and being in… a safe house? Bruce stumbled away from the door frame, to the edge, suddenly more anxious than before—he had to leave, had to— a voice called out, “Batman!” and after a delayed, fuzzy second, he recognized it as Clark’s voice. He turned, but stumbled over his own feet. A steadying arm appeared and Superman’s—Clark’s—face appeared closely in his vision. Bruce blinked, staring back. After a moment, Clark asked slowly, “Are you alright, Batman? Robin said you’d been captured by the Joker.” Bruce nodded, his head going up and down somewhat more than expected.  


“Yes… there was explosion. Blacked out, Clown found me… I thin’ he stich’d me up,” Bruce slurred. Clark gave him a once over, and had that ‘I’m X-raying you’ expression on his face. Bruce pressed a hand over Clark’s eyes and said, more firmly, “Stop tha’… no… peeking.” Clark frowned, gently removing Bruce’s hand from his face. He hovered a little, inspecting Bruce.  


“Well, you seem to be physically fine… but I have no idea what he gave you,” Clark muttered, as if he was speaking to himself, not expecting Bruce to be listening. A hazy image of a yellowish liquid and a watery-echoing memory of the Joker’s voice ran through his mind.  


Swaying slightly, Bruce said, “It… was yellowy, and th’ clown said—said something… said it was what he took when I beat… him up.” Bruce swayed again, and Superman caught him and helped him sit down on the concrete. Bruce dramatically flopped backwards, staring up at Clark, who now had a deep furrow to his brow.  


“It was yellow, you said?” he asked.  


Bruce nodded, and answered, “Uh-huh. Clark, I feel floaty… is this what it’s like to fly?”  


With a sigh, Clark picked up something—Bruce recognized it as a spare communicator—and said, “I found him. No, he’s fine… mostly. No! No, it’s nothing serious. It’s just”—he sighed here—“I think the Joker tried to give him pain meds or something? Yeah, he’s high as a kite. I’ll bring him home.” Clark hung up and looked down at Bruce.  


Bruce waved, patting the concrete besides him. “Join me, it’s nice down here,” he demanded. A small smile on his face, Clark sat cross-legged next to Bruce and helped him sit up.  


“Think you can manage a flight back to the cave?” he asked.  


Bruce nodded, and said, “I want to ho home.”  


Superman nodded, replying, “Yep, that’s where we’re going.” Clark carried Bruce in his arms, and as soon as they were in the air, Bruce threw up. Clark sighed.  


Bruce apologized weakly, “Sorry… I didn’t think we were going yet.”  


Clark said, with forced patience, “It’s fine. Not your fault I didn’t warn you.”  


The flight was quick, but Bruce still managed to fall half-asleep. A gentle hand was shaking him and Bruce sat up from the cot. “Alfred?” he asked.  


The butler nodded, and asked, “How are you feeling, Sir?”  


Shaking his head, Bruce said, “Better now.” But then he frowned.  


“Is there a problem, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked.  


Looking around shiftily, to make sure Clark wasn’t there listening, Bruce confessed, “I threw up on Superman.”  


Alfred sighed, and answered, “I doubt he blames you, seeing the condition you are in, Master Bruce. Now, get some rest.” Bruce hummed his agreement and settled back closing his eyes. “Heaven help us all when he wakes up,” Alfred muttered, walking away.


End file.
